


Midnight Memories and Tea

by Loxxlay



Category: Doctrine of Labyrinths - Sarah Monette
Genre: (yes both), Bruises, Dubious Consent, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Flashbacks, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Canon, Victim Blaming, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-12
Updated: 2019-05-12
Packaged: 2020-03-01 07:43:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18795976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loxxlay/pseuds/Loxxlay
Summary: Months after settling into the Grimglass lighthouse, Felix remembers the time Malkar soothed him after a run-away attempt involving a client - a client who left Felix wounded, not only in his body but also in his mind.





	Midnight Memories and Tea

**Author's Note:**

  * For [reine_des_corbeaux](https://archiveofourown.org/users/reine_des_corbeaux/gifts).



> Hello, my dear recipient!! <3 I had to write this a little last-minute because of the workload from my semester delaying me... So this fic is not as long as I would have liked it to be, but I hope it is enjoyable for youuu, nonetheless. Your prompts for DoL were all FABULOUS. We seem to enjoy a lot of the same thingss, and I definitely picked up ideas from some of the tags you wrote on your blog post. thank you so much for all the ideas and this fun fic opportunity!
> 
> I want to _especially_ thank [@veliseraptor](https://veliseraptor.tumblr.com/) for literally reassuring me multiple times and multiple days in a row and also for the generous task of beta-ing my fic last minute (which was super helpful!) 
> 
> Also want to thank [@portraitoftheoddity](https://portraitoftheoddity.tumblr.com/) for her in-depth wiki for DoL thingss, which I definitely referenced.
> 
> And also [@thelightofthingshopedfor](https://thelightofthingshopedfor.tumblr.com/) for continuously cheerleading me on as welll.
> 
> (All of these people have written DoL fic before I'm pretty sure, which I think might interest you if you're ever looking for more fic!!) 
> 
> Anyway without further ado:

It’s night in the lighthouse and the waves are crashing, loudly, against the rocky wall of the shore outside. There are flashes of white and booming thunder and Felix can’t sleep. 

He can’t sleep. 

He tried. For hours, he lay in bed, but the weight of the covers became the ruthless arms of his Keeper holding him down under the surface, with no air, with bright, blurry stars in his vision, with his lungs gasping, screeching, screaming, please please please please. 

And when he threw the covers off, the flashes of light transformed into the split seconds between the chamber holding the Virtu and Malkar’s hidden workroom. Lightning cast long shadows, like Malkar’s candles, and his body throbbed with the residue of scarred magic and mind.

It’s cold in his room without the blankets. Mildmay is sleeping. Felix dares not disturb him because in the buildup to the storm Mildmay’s leg kept him awake several nights in a row and he’s only just fallen asleep tonight.

Besides. It would never do to disturb Mildmay with something as ridiculous as this.

He slips down the stairs and kindles the flames of the fireplace and lets the crackling of sparks drown the noise of rain and waves and thunder. Tea, he thinks, to himself and reaches for a kettle. Tea will settle his nerves, and it’s not alcohol. Mildmay would be needlessly worried if Felix broke into his secret cache of alcohol tonight, without saying anything. So Felix settles on the idea of tea.

He sits on the counter beside the stove, which had taken him days to learn to operate. And he waits for the water to boil.

But the nightmares have already wormed their way into his mind, feasting like maggots on the abundant fodder there. He stares at the fireplace, mesmerized by the flames. Everything feels warm, heavy, and for a blessed moment, he thinks of nothing. It’s both a kindness and a curse—a curse that leaves him vulnerable to his memory.

And then the tea kettle whistles— 

* * *

 

Felix lies in bed listening to the teapot kettle whistling down the stairs. It’s late. The healer whom Malkar called has already finished looking Felix over. The two of them mentioned giving him something for the pain, and with that, they stepped out of the room to speak in whispers—the echoes of their voices mingling in the din of the foyer, unrecognizable save for the stray, occasional syllable that would ring like an omen.

Several minutes ago, the voices stopped and the front door clicked shut. Malkar did not reappear, but Felix heard the sounds of his shuffling through cupboards and the clinking of mugs somewhere in the mansion. And then the tea kettle hissing. 

Felix closes his eyes, breathes deep, and exhales slow.

Everything throbs. The afterimage of bruises surges on his wrists and the imprints of welts flash across his thighs. His head pounds with an unrelenting headache, and if he’s not much mistaken, then there is a warm trickle of blood running from his lower lip. If he could convince himself to move, he might reach for the washcloth Malkar left on the nightstand and wipe his chin. He doesn’t want Malkar to think his injuries are worse than they are.

But the blankets are heavy and he is so very tired.

The whistling tea kettle cuts off.

Every hair on his neck stands at attention waiting for the inevitable footsteps on the stairs, for the soothing, floral smell accompanying the steam of tea. He cannot move. He cannot breathe. All he can do is rehearse intricate apologies in his mind,  I’m so sorry, I swear I’ll do better, I promise never to step foot outside of here without your permission again, so please, just this once, don't —

Malkar appears in the doorway. “Oh, Felix,” he says with a disapproving shake of his head. A cluck of his tongue. 

All of Felix’s words vanish. 

He knows, without even opening his mouth, that nothing he can say will matter to Malkar. The deed has already been done. It’s better to stay silent.

Chuckling, Malkar moves forward and sits on the edge of the bed. He sets the mug of tea next to the washcloth on the nightstand and rests his palm on the blanket over Felix’s thigh. The welts sting at the contact. Felix can’t help it—he flinches.

“There, there,” Malkar says. Kindness infects his voice like poison. With his other hand, he plucks strands of red hair from Felix's sweat-stained forehead and tucks them behind his ear. “I am going to take good care of you. Even though we both know I shouldn’t. Not after what you did.”

Instinctively, Felix knows this is his cue. “I’m sorry,” he breathes. The panicked, betrayed thoughts that raced through his mind last night when he’d tried to run away—they are figments now. Illusive and distant. For now. “I won’t leave you again.”

“Of course you won’t.” Malkar’s eyes smile with a threat. “Now that you know what lies in wait for you out there. Isn't that right?”

Malkar’s hand squeezes his thighs—the welts burn. Felix remembers the stranger’s starved eyes—the whip in his one fist—how he’d curled his hand around Felix’s throat. The snap of the whip, over and over, until warmth trickled down his throbbing thighs. A shudder runs through his body. Felix closes his eyes and clamps his teeth on the inside of his lip. Even that pain, reminds him—the stranger hauling up his knees and slamming into him at the same insistent pace he’d used with the whip. Felix had scrambled for purchase—only for the man to punch him in the jaw.

And that was it. One fuck for a couple  septagorgons  which would be enough for food and shelter for the night. One fuck for a couple  septagorgons  that the man never gave him. One fuck that left him bleeding and helpless in the middle of an alleyway. One fuck and he had crawled back to Malkar—because even if Malkar whips him, fucks him, and beats him, it is only out of love. Malkar's love is guaranteed. A solace.

“Felix,” Malkar says, interrupting the stream of perturbed memory, “I’m waiting for an answer.”

Felix opens his eyes. “Yes, Malkar,” he breathes, meeting his gaze. “I won’t leave you again.”

They both know it’s a lie. It’s not the first time he’s tried, nor will it be the last. But they both know that he will always, always come back.

Malkar smiles at him. “Good. That’s what I wanted to hear.”

The warmth of the praise reverberates through Felix’s chest. His vision goes blurry. Tear-stained. 

Carefully, Malkar takes the washcloth and wipes at Felix’s chin. The pressure on his lip stings, and his tears spill over, running down his temples. When Malkar presses his index finger against the swollen cut on his lip, Felix whimpers—a hoarse, humiliating sound.

Malkar sighs. “Oh, darling. Do you have to make such a spectacle of everything?”

Still, Malkar cradles the back of Felix’s head and brings the mug of tea to his lips. It’s hot and bitter with whatever tincture the healer recommended, and as the liquid runs over his split lip, Felix remains perfectly still. He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t whimper. He sips and swallows. Sips and swallows. But if Malkar has noticed his good behavior, he doesn’t say anything.

After setting down the empty mug, Malkar leans down to kiss him.

And something is wrong. Felix has lot count of the amount of times he’s had sex and the amount of clients that have fucked him over the years. But it’s been a while. It’s been long enough that last night, the stranger’s brutality lies on the frayed edges of his mind. He tries to sink into Malkar’s kiss, tries to part his lips and let his breath come heavy in arousal (because he wants this, he wants this, he  does ), but—his body stiffens. His lips close as decisively as a shut door. His fists vibrate with tension.

“Felix,” Malkar says, and his voice is a warning. “Is tonight really the night you want to deny me?”

“N-no,” Felix breathes. “I—I’m sorry.”

Malkar swats his cheek for the minimal trace of his Simside accent. But he makes no more comment as he kisses Felix again.

This time, Felix is ready. He forces his lips open and his hands to steady. At first, it works. Then the invasive force of Malkar’s tongue has his head spinning and his memories reeling, and his voice whimpers, his body shudders, his hands are at Malkar’s chest to push him off before he can think to stop them. 

“Alright,” Malkar says, “now I’m rather annoyed. Do you know how much of my wealth you’ve cost me tonight? Getting yourself so beaten that you needed a healer? The least you can do is show your appreciation.”

“I’m sorry,” Felix says, fighting to control his accent. “I—I want to, I do, I’m just.” He shivers, remembering the stranger’s bruising grip around his wrists, remembering the stranger’s whiskey-coated breath. “I’m only… distracted…” 

“You’re  distracted ?” 

Wide-eyed, Felix braces himself. 

Then, surprisingly, Malkar’s face softens.

 “Oh,” Malkar says, gently. “I think I understand. See, darling, this is why you don’t whore yourself to people without my permission. Let’s see if I can make it better. Hmm?” 

Malkar lifts the blanket, stealing the heavy warmth that has been soothing him. Whatever was in the tea is not quite dulling the pain. Felix shivers, wishing his stomach would get it over with and just be sick—maybe then, even if angry, Malkar would let him be.

Malkar runs a hand along Felix’s hips, dipping fingers into the band of his night pants. At the contact, Felix’s feet flex and his fingernails dig into his palms. “I know, I know,” Malkar says. “Don't think of it. Just relax.”

The kindness in Malkar’s voice is persuasive. Felix closes his eyes, exhales, and unclenches his hands.

With that, Malkar removes his pants and begins stroking him in earnest. Working him up with the steady, methodic motion of his hands. This was something the man hadn’t done to him, so Felix relaxes into it, letting his thoughts drown in heat. His back aches, as Malkar’s pace quickens. A couple of too-loud moans slip from his throat—but Malkar doesn’t scold him.

“That’s it,” Malkar murmurs. “Good.”

His body burns.

He comes not much later—the shock of it blaring through even the throbbing pain in his head for a few blessed minutes. His thoughts are dulled. Memories cast away.

Then Malkar pushes a finger into him.

And it’s the man—the man last night who whipped him and fucked him and didn’t even pay—and Felix’s thighs clamp shut.

“Felix,” Malkar warns. 

Felix forces his legs open.

“You’ll feel so much better after this,” Malkar says. “I promise.”

He can’t speak. He’s not sure if he believes.

Malkar pushes in a second finger, slicked with oil. “Don’t you trust me?”

And he should trust Malkar. He knows he should. He  does . So he nods. He tries. He opens his eyes and fixes his gaze on Malkar’s face. Ignores the fact that Malkar has already lowered his pants and that his cock stands hard and ready. Focuses on listening to Malkar’s heavy, rhythmic breath instead. The feeling of fingers working him open. The aroma of the tea. The soft silkiness of the bed sheet beneath him. The lasting post-coital bliss.

“Very good,” Malkar says.

Felix moans.

After a while longer, Malkar slides over his body. Then, without warning, he penetrates Felix in one sharp thrust.

There’s no time to adjust. No time to do anything but yelp and tense and un-tense and adjust. Felix writhes at first, but Malkar pins his wrists to the bed. “Don’t be such a brat,” he says, his voice husky in his pleasure but steady. “You do want to feel better, don’t you?”

And Felix forces himself to nod, because he does want this. Or he should want this, because Malkar knows what is best for him. Malkar bought him—saved him from the brothel. Fed him, clothed him, sheltered him, loved him. After everything, how could he ever say no?

He lies, pliant, as Malkar fucks him deep. Each thrust hurls Felix’s head into the bed frame with bruising force, worsening his headache. His thighs sting at the slap of Malkar’s hips. His wrists throb at the pressure Malkar’s fists apply. He flashes between here and there, here, with Malkar, who loves him, who cares for him, and there, with the stranger who stole what he wanted and left.

Malkar snaps his fingers in front of Felix’s face, so Felix forces his eyes open. He knows he needs to stay alert. Present. Malkar won’t forgive him otherwise.

And he tries, but it hurts, it hurts, it hurts, and he’s lost count of the amount of thrusts, the amount of times his head has hit the bed frame, the amount of throbbing in his thighs. His panting moans sound pained.

Malkar says, as he thrusts, “This really is your own fault, you know.”

Felix latches onto the words because they’re something that isn’t pain. Something that isn’t memory. Something that can keep him focused.

“Everything you are,” Malkar goes on, “is begging to be fucked. Your exotic hair. Your pretty face. Your voice—when you’re behaving, that is. You even smell like a little slut.”

Tears build. Felix’s throat aches.

“Can you truly blame that man for what he did? You were the one who chose to stroll around last night as a willing prostitute. I told you—I  warned  you that everyone here would see you for what you really are. A whore. A slut. Only good for this.” Malkar thrusts, deep. Felix yelps as his insides twist to accommodate. “You can’t be angry at him for taking you for what you are. In fact, you should thank him. For thinking you were worth a fuck at all.”

The tears spill. Felix closes his eyes and wishes that the bed, the floor, the very soil would open and swallow him whole, for he wants nothing else in this moment but to die. 

“Are you listening?” Malkar growls.

And Felix chokes out the words to prove it: “I should thank him for thinking I was worth a fuck at all.”

“That’s right,” Malkar says with a pleased hum. “Don’t be so sad, darling. Have I not offered everything in my power to help you hide it? Have I not seen your potential as something other than a Simside cunt?”

Felix doesn’t speak. He doesn’t think this is a question Malkar actually wants answered.

“I’ve taught you magic. I’ve taught you to read. I’ve taught you to speak with decency.” With each sentence, he thrusts, hard, and Felix thinks his insides must be bruised now, too. “Only I will ever see you worth for anything more than a whore. Only I will ever love you.”

The thrusts come shorter now. Less painful. Malkar is close—Felix can sense it in the sloppy pace and the way Malkar’s voice fades off. And Felix lies there, taking it, and thinking about how it’s true. How Malkar loves him. Even now, his limbs are loosening, and his body is softening into the pain. He won’t stiffen and flinch and writhe tomorrow because Malkar has taken care of the memory of the stranger—filled the trauma with this.

With love.

No one else ever thought him smart enough to learn to read. No one else ever fancied a possibility that he could learn magic.

To everyone else, he has always been a whore.

And maybe to Malkar, he is still a whore—but he is also something else. Something of value.

Malkar spills inside of him, just as Felix is overcome with the affection he feels for this man. For caring and loving and helping when no one else would. When Malkar sits up to kiss him, Felix’s lips don’t clamp shut or stiffen. Not even when Malkar bites his bruised lip. After everything Malkar has done—is doing—Felix has no reason to deny Malkar this.

* * *

 

—a hand is shaking his shoulder. 

“Hey. Felix. Wake up.”

Felix blinks, and for a moment, he doesn’t know where he is. Hard, cold granite under his hands. A warm, reddish glow that crackles. A face in front of his, shadowed save for the dim light catching the scar up the side of his face. Mildmay. “What?” he says stupidly. And it’s just one word, but he hears the Simside accent drowning out the coherence of his voice. He flinches.

Mildmay lets his shoulder go and backs several paces away, and Felix almost wishes he would stay.

It takes a whirr of seconds for Felix to recognize and place his surroundings. Lighthouse.  Grimglass . Corambis. Cast from Esmer. Exiled from Mélusine. 

Malkar is dead.

Thunder crashes. Felix flinches again—and that’s when he remembers. The storm, the blasted storm that wouldn’t let him sleep, and how he’d come down here to make a pot of tea, hoping not to disturb Mildmay, and—and it’d started whistling.

Felix glances urgently at the stove, but the tea kettle has been removed from the burner and the stove has been turned off.

“You left it on,” Mildmay says in his quiet, rough voice. “Woke me up.”

“I . . . am sorry,” Felix says, watching his brother carefully. “I did not wish to disturb you.”

Mildmay shrugs, and Felix takes it to mean he’s forgiven.

There’s a silence between them. It’s not terribly uncomfortable, save for the fact that Mildmay seems on the verge of speaking. Scarred mouth opening. Closing. A struggle between wanting to ask and fearing an answer. Felix doesn’t move or press him; he knows he’s lashed out so many times at kindness that Mildmay may be rather justified in his caution.

“You okay?” Mildmay eventually asks.

It is the question Felix expected and he has his answer ready. “I’m well. I was just thinking.”

Mildmay’s brow hardens with worry. “You mean remembering?”

“Yes,” Felix says quietly. “I was remembering.”

Mildmay waits for a while. The thunder outside has dimmed, leaving only the sound of pelting rain and waves crashing in the distance. In Mildmay’s presence, the idea of the ocean bothers Felix much less. He thinks—he thinks he could tell Mildmay about what he was remembering. Malkar’s heavy merciless weight slamming into him. The headache. The welts. The confession of love.

But he realizes with sudden clarity that he doesn’t want to. Or more—he doesn’t  need  to. 

Mildmay already knows his deepest shames, his deepest secrets. And somehow, for some reason, Mildmay loves him anyway.

Overcome with sudden need, Felix slips off the counter and hugs his brother tight. At first, Mildmay stiffens in his arms. Then he relaxes, and his hands curl around Felix’s waist, and they stand like that. In the droning patter of rain. In the distant hum of waves. They stand, until Felix starts to feel silly and uncomfortable, and he whispers into Mildmay’s ear. “Alright. Let’s have some tea.”

Mildmay grunts his acknowledgment.

And as the water boils and the tea kettle sings, Felix thinks  this  will be the new memory. The one that replaces bruised wrists and welted thighs. The one that soothes away his trauma. The one he reminisces when his thoughts go silent, leaving him vulnerable and open to the past.

This memory, this memory of his brother and he sitting down at the table in the middle of the night and sipping from their respective mugs of tea, will be the memory that lasts.

**Author's Note:**

> I mostly post thor&loki stuff but just in case [here's my tumblr :)](https://loxxxlay.tumblr.com/)


End file.
